


Assorted Drabbles

by Blood Lightning (TheBrilliantDarkness)



Category: Tekken
Genre: Crossdressing, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrilliantDarkness/pseuds/Blood%20Lightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles written as responses to prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I call this a collection of drabbles, but some of these are probably a little too long to qualify?? I don't know - I'll keep the title for convenience's sake~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt that asked for something involving Steve and Leo holding hands.
> 
> Notes: Steve/Leo.

It hasn’t escaped Steve’s notice that Leo says a lot with her hands.

Quiet by nature, much of her communication is in her body language, and her hands speak louder than any other part of her. She communicates worry by running a hand through her hair in a particular way, parting it with fingers splayed and then gripping it tightly when she reaches the crown of her head; unease is signalled by her folding her arms and clutching hard at her sides with her hands; when she is excited, her hands move with her unspoken enthusiasm.

They aren’t just silent signifiers; when she speaks passionately, Leo gesticulates, making vague shapes and moving her hands about in a way that draws the eye, draws all attention to her and the subject she is talking about. When she discusses serious topics, she threads the fingers of both hands together, holds them like that, or in lightly clenched fists by her sides. On the rare occasion that she offers up some semblance of vulnerability and talks on subjects that are as unseen wounds dwelling within her, she unconsciously bears her palms to her confidant, indicating the absolution of her trust in them.

There is precision in the movement of Leo’s hands, born of years of martial arts training – and there is strength there, too, begotten not only of her Bajiquan, but of a lifetime spent exploring cave systems, navigating sheer walls and pulling herself through narrow passages.

But the first time she tentatively nudges her hand against his and gently winds her fingers in with his own, Steve still finds that he is shocked by the lean firmness there and the striking texture of her skin – coarse, not soft, roughened through years of spelunking.

And he likes it. As he adjusts his hand to fit against hers, he marvels at the power made evident even in her hesitant grip; her fingers flex effortlessly as they seek to comfortably nestle between his own. And her _skin_ – for Steve, that rough quality inadvertently takes him back to lazy summer days spent exploring the beach near his old hometown; sand and rocks and shells - all coarse surfaces and all so uniquely beautiful to him.

Her hands are smaller than his – markedly so – but they fit together perfectly in a loose grip that develops from cautious and tentative into something bold and affirming of their ever-growing bond as the minutes tick by.

No words pass between them. None are needed.

Leo always speaks loudest with her hands.


	2. Cheerleader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt that asked that I have Steve or Leo react to the other dressing up.
> 
> Notes: Established Steve/Leo, cross-dressing.

Steve was reminded why it was important to periodically clean out one’s wardrobe when Leo stepped into the living room one afternoon with an armful of Steve-sized cheerleader garb.

“Why do you have this?” Leo asked, an eyebrow raised, her lips quirked into an amused grin.

Steve sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated. Hwoarang had a lot to answer for.

“It was for a bet. Which I won, by the way.”

“But you kept it?”

Steve shrugged.

“Why not? I paid money for the bloody thing, thought I might as well keep it in case any silly charity events came up, y’know?”

“Sure,” Leo grinned, clearly not convinced by his reasoning in the slightest.

Embarassed, Steve turned away – only for Leo to speak up again.

“Wear it for me?” she asked, cheeks a light shade of pink as she grinned up at him.

“Oh,” Steve mumbled, his own face reddening. “I – um…”

“Go on,” she urged. “Just this once?”

Steve went to decline, found he could not will it out, and then sighed.

He never was very good at saying ‘no’ to her.

Steve took the cheerleader outfit without another word and retreated to the bedroom.

*

Steve emerged from the bedroom roughly fifteen minutes later, not after several crashes and muttered curses had sounded out. He slipped into the living room silently, head lowered in shame, and Leo nearly dropped the cup of coffee she was nursing when she saw him.

The crop top clung tight to his chest, the defined outlines of his pecs visible beneath the stretched material. The pale skin of his abdomen was uncovered, the sculpted muscle of his stomach and hips revealed plainly to the world, and the tiny skirt that threatened to reveal _everything_ hung ineffectually over his upper thighs.

“ _Oh,_ ” Leo murmured, raising a hand to her mouth, eyes lighting up with a mixture of amusement and desire. Steve shifted awkwardly, tugging the short skirt down as much as it would allow – which, as it was, didn’t do much to hide anything.

“Happy now?” Steve asked, crossing his arms over his chest as Leo set her coffee down and approached.

“Very,” she confirmed, looking him up and down appreciatively.

When she said nothing else and just continued to admire him, Steve shifted anxiously.

“Alright, are we done here?” he asked. “Can I get changed?”

 “Keep it on a bit longer?” Leo requested, trailing her fingers lightly over Steve’s exposed abs. “I could get used to this.”

“Does this sort of thing really do it for you?” Steve asked sceptically, trying hard not to think about how comfortable skirts were compared to trousers.

Leo hummed absently, circled Steve with her hand still trailing over his bare midriff.

“Having fun?” Steve asked when she paused behind him, her hand resting pleasantly on his lower back.

“Oh, I am,” she replied, covertly admiring the curve of Steve’s behind beneath the skirt. This was _definitely_ something she was into – she just wondered if she’d be able to bring Steve around to the idea. A plan formed in her head. Leo smiled slyly to herself, removed her hand from Steve’s back and headed for the sofa.

Steve made an indignant sound at the loss of contact, turned to watch Leo settle on the sofa. Was that it? Had her interest been that fleeting?

He didn’t know how to feel about that.

But then Leo made a beckoning gesture, and Steve knew that it wasn’t over yet.

And though he was still battling warring feelings of discomfort and anxious excitement, Steve followed Leo’s lead, figuring that he might as well indulge her whilst he was in the damn costume anyway. He approached the sofa, met Leo’s eyes briefly as he came to straddle her lap, the parting of his legs shifting the material of his skirt almost obscenely – after he’d settled, Steve found the embarrassment was too much, and he looked away, wondering how long he’d be able to handle this until it became too much and he had to call it off.

“Are you okay?” Leo asked, reaching up to brush a hand over Steve’s jaw.

Steve nodded without looking at her.

“Are you sure?” she said, rubbing her thumb over the rough stubble on Steve’s cheek whilst her other hand came to rest absently on one of his knees. “We can stop if you want?”

“No, it’s fine,” Steve said quickly. His voice had pitched up something awful, and the words came out as more of a sharp squeak than anything – but Leo understood. She shook her head, smiling fondly to herself.

“If you want to stop, just tell me,” she said gently. Steve nodded again, still looking everywhere but at her.

Leo moved her hand slowly along Steve’s jaw, brushed lightly over the sensitive skin of his throat until her fingers were skimming over the fabric of the crop top. Steve’s breath hitched, and he bit his lower lip and closed his eyes.  Knowing that to be a sign that Steve liked something, Leo continued, down to the prominent ridges of his abs, her calloused fingertips grazing over them and then toying with the elastic of the skirt’s waistband. Steve moaned quietly, squirming on her lap, and Leo bit her lip as he had done, thoroughly enjoying the view.

She removed her hand from his abdomen, placed it on his knee as she had with her other.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Are you still with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, eyes still closed. “Yeah, keep going.”

Leo smiled, hands sliding boldly up Steve’s exposed thighs until her fingertips were ghosting under the edge of his miniskirt. Steve gripped at the back of the sofa, looked down at Leo with a full-blown blush colouring his cheeks, his lips parted slightly.

“You look good in a skirt,” Leo said, eyes half-lidded, a lazy smile on her face as she looked back at Steve. Her fingers rubbed teasingly over the sensitive skin of his upper thighs, drawing mewling sounds from the back of Steve’s throat. “Maybe you should wear them for me more often?”

“Maybe,” Steve agreed, unable to stop himself from smiling back – and it was the right thing to say, because Leo got straight back to action.

After what followed, Steve would have been happy to buy a skirt for every day of the week.


	3. Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt that asked that Steve embarrass himself - I ended up deviating and adding Hwoarang into the mix, though!
> 
> Notes: Implied Steve/Hwoarang.

Steve couldn’t remember the last time an interview had gone so well – let alone one that was being broadcast live.

He’d torn through the questions, every bit the witty, charming, charismatic young man his appearances in the ring would have one believe, never once faltering or ruminating too long on an answer; his replies had been snappy yet thought-out, concise yet revealing. He was glad that, of all the interviews he’d done, this was the one being streamed live to the King of Iron Fist Tournament website – he doubted whether an interview would ever go so smoothly for him again.

It was just as the interview was about to wrap up that there was a knock on the door. Everyone turned to see who it could be – they still had the room for another fifteen minutes, after all – when none other than Hwoarang popped his head round the door, looking around briefly before he homed in on Steve.

“There you are, man, I’ve been looking _everywhere_ for you.”

Heedless of the interviewer and the members of the crew as they looked to one another in panic – _do we drag him out or do we keep filming?_ – Hwoarang crossed the room and slid onto the interview couch beside Steve, cosying up to him just that bit too much.

Steve froze. He liked Hwoarang, he _really_ did – but his presence at that particular moment was _not_ needed.

“Hey, are you being interviewed?” Hwoarang asked, sitting up and looking eagerly into the cameras.

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve hissed. He glanced at the crew, hoping that they’d elect to postpone the broadcast until Hwoarang had been escorted off set – only to despair when the various members shrugged and nodded and continued doing what they were doing.

“Hwoarang,” the interviewer greeted, having settled back into her relaxed, amiable persona. “What a pleasant surprise. Am I pronouncing that right? Hwoarang?”

Hwoarang gave her a brief once over, curled his lip slightly in disinterest, said: “I don’t know,” and turned his attention back to Steve.

“Steve, man,” he said, leaning closer and hemming Steve in against the arm of the sofa. One of his hands came to brush over Steve’s chest, and Steve felt the blood rushing to his face. _Oh no_. He blushed easy – the red flush colouring his cheeks was _definitely_ going to show up on camera. “Look, I know you’re a busy guy, but that’s no reason to stand me up, is it? I waited _five minutes_ for you to show last night, and you didn’t turn up! I was only ten minutes late – _and_ I bought nice lube. Do you know how often I buy nice lube for anything that isn’t my bike? _Not often_ , _Steven James Fox._ ”

Steve gaped. He gripped the arm of the sofa, looked at the cameras ( _‘big mistake’_ his mind chided), looked to the interviewer, whose mouth had dropped open, then looked to Hwoarang, who knew _exactly_ what he was doing – his eyes were narrowed, lips pulled into a nasty smile.

What a mess. The interview had been going _so well_. And it wasn’t as if he’d meant to abandon his date with Hwoarang the night before! He’d been caught in traffic and Hwoarang, as usual, hadn’t been answering his phone. Steve fumbled for a reasonable response to Hwoarang’s accusatory tirade – but he couldn’t find one, and he could feel himself getting redder and redder, could feel the sweat beginning to seep from his pores, conspiring to cover him in an unsightly sheen beneath the oppressive studio lights.

“Anyway,” Hwoarang grinned, apparently content that he’d ruined Steve’s life enough for one day. “I gotta go – I hear Kazama’s got a photoshoot going on in the next room that my presence would improve tenfold.”

And then Hwoarang was gone, and Steve was left to sink into the couch and avert his eyes from the hungry stares of the interviewer, crew and camera.

“Funny prank, right?” he said eventually in a small, shaky voice. “Such a joker, that Hwoarang, always pulling stuff like that…”

But the interviewer wasn’t going to buy it, and Steve left the room ten minutes later red-faced and soaked with sweat, having endured the last portion of the interview being probed about whether he or Hwoarang topped and were they an item? How long had they been together?

Even Jin Kazama’s indignant shouts (punctuated by Hwoarang’s gleeful laughter) in the photoshoot room were of little comfort to Steve. He was never going to live this down.

One thing was for sure: Hwoarang _definitely_ wasn’t getting any from Steve for at least a week.


	4. Sir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a prompt for Steve/Lars with jawline kisses.
> 
> Notes: Steve/Lars.

Steve hates being scolded, but the last thing he’s going to do is bolt.

Lars has him hemmed up against the wall of a boarded up building in an empty street, the dim light of the place occasionally supplemented with the artificial yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. It’s a dangerous part of town in the wartime circumstances, and Steve knows he shouldn’t have ventured out there without Lars’ permission – _you’ll give our position away, Fox_ – but he needed to follow up on those rumours and find out if Hwoarang was still in the area.

“You disobeyed an order,” Lars growls, his face inches away from Steve’s. He holds Steve against the wall without the need to even touch him – the sheer force of Lars’ presence is enough to keep him there, humiliated and cowed and thoroughly regretting his decision-making skills.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters. “Just wanted to see if Hwoa was still about.”

Lars goes to say something, but Steve chances eye contact and something catches them both; Steve is struck, not for the first time, by the man’s powerful expression, the attractive natural authority that the rebel leader emanates, and something flutters in his chest; and something predatory stirs in Lars as Steve’s deep blue eyes meet his, something that wants to lay claim to the pretty Brit with all his endearing cluelessness. Just for a moment, Lars’ restraint slips away, and he gives in to the wildly inappropriate calling of his baser side.

“Sorry _what?_ ” Lars asks in a quiet, dangerous whisper.

Steve blinks, and Lars’ eyes flick to the other man’s lips; the brief gesture doesn’t go unnoticed. Steve gulps, mouth suddenly dry as he fumbles for words, the air electric with tension as he goes to inhale a calming breath. The sudden onset of desire has left him heady and he almost swoons against the wall, but he holds himself and, finally, finds it in him to reply.

“ _Sir_ ,” Steve breathes, backing up further against the wall as Lars steps into him. He makes no move to stop his superior officer when his fingertips skim down his forearms, doesn’t stop Lars when he fixes his hands around his wrists and pins them against the wall, either side of his head. Lars seeks to meet Steve’s gaze again, and Steve almost whimpers when he recognises the dark lust pooling in the other man’s eyes. “Sorry _sir_.”

Lars growls his approval, a primal sound that reverberates through his chest. A gasp shudders past Steve’s parted lips, and he closes his eyes, tilts his head back like a submissive animal baring its throat to an aggressor, trusting that the predator will be appeased by such reckless surrender. Lars’ hands tighten around his wrists, and Steve _whines_ when he feels the other man’s lips ghost over the sharp line of his jaw.

“At ease,” Lars murmurs, low and hot against Steve’s jaw. Steve bites his lip and _shakes_ as arousal sparks through his veins, but he doesn’t make a sound, tries to relax in the hopes that Lars will continue.

And he does. Lars presses his lips to the delicate skin just below Steve’s ear, so that Steve moans quietly and tries to lean his head back even further that Lars might have access to more of him. Lars makes another rumbling sound of approval, satisfied with the response of his prey, and nips gently at the soft skin at the curve of Steve’s jaw. Steve gasps sharply, his back arching off the wall, his fingers curling through the air, and Lars reacts in kind, keeping his quarry’s arms pinned firmly against the wall as he moves down Steve’s jawline, varying his technique as he goes – a featherlight touch of lips teasing against the man’s chin, a hot, open kiss to the skin just beneath Steve’s defined jaw, and then a teasing brush of his mouth over the length of the area.

Steve’s legs quake beneath him as Lars carries out his ‘punishment’, the glorious sensation that his superior’s treatment is throwing through his system all too much. He moans unashamedly, hands clenching and unclenching as he squirms in the other man’s grip; this is the first time he has ever allowed someone so much power over him, the first time he has ever given over so completely to the pleasure that submission can engender.

It’s only when Lars bites down just a little too hard and elicts a yelp from Steve that the game stops. The pained noise brings Lars’ sense of responsibility towards Steve crashing back down, and he releases Steve’s wrists as though the touch burns suddenly, takes a step back and winces as he considers what he’s just done. Steve remains against the wall, hands still held loosely against the brickwork; the arousal has made his mind sluggish, and all he can feel for a few long moments is bereft disappointment.

“Steve, I –“ Lars shakes his head, utterly humiliated by his lack of restraint, mortified by the way he’s just abused his power. “I apologise. That was _highly_ inappropriate.”

Steve recovers somewhat, finally straightening up and stepping away from the wall. Emboldened by the lingering arousal and his need for… _resolution_ , he approaches Lars, seeks eye contact with his leader. He finds it, catches Lars’ remorseful eyes and bites his lip, his face still flushed slightly red from the encounter.

“You could make it up to me back at base?” Steve suggests, just a hint of self-consciousness in his tone. Lars blinks, opens his mouth as if to agree, fails to do so and closes it, shaking his head – but then Steve adds a husky “ _Sir.”_ and Lars knows that he’s doomed.

His restraint wasn’t made to stand up to such things.


End file.
